


A Pittance

by Lucita_de_Aragon



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Csevet Bent Over A Desk, Dubious Consent, Hair Pulling, M/M, Office Sex, Rough Sex, Sex for Favors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24283339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucita_de_Aragon/pseuds/Lucita_de_Aragon
Summary: Csevet needs money. Chavar will give it, for a price.
Relationships: Uleris Chavar/Csevet Aisava
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6
Collections: The Goblin Emperor Filthfest 2020





	A Pittance

“A month’s pay.” Aisava’s face was drawn, his eyes downcast. He had not stated what he needed the money for, and given the time and the annoyances of the preceding hours Uleris did not particularly care.

“And why, pray tell,” Uleris replied, “do you not appeal to the Courier General for such a sum?”

Aisava stood his ground, the set of his chin bordering on the insolent. “Our first appeal was to Osmer Orimar, who informed us that as the Chancellor’s attaché our pay falls within your auspices.”

Uleris ground his teeth. Of course the holder of the most useless sinecure at court would find a way to forbear from dipping into the courier office funds. Anything to hold onto the whole percentage of them he had been skimming since his appointment. In sooth it was Uleris who was the fool for having recruited the first actually useful courier he had found for his personal offices. “The funds are released to us on a monthly basis as dictated by the court treasury, requiring special requisitions that could very well take a month in themselves for any advance,” Uleris replied, hoping that his flat affect gave off the air of a man who was not about to jump through bureaucratic hoops for a servant.

“We will apply directly to the treasury ourself, then,” Aisava replied, ears lifting incrementally.

“You will only encounter the same obstacles as ourself, without the station to induce anyone to listen.” Irritation set Uleris’s ears back against his head. “An you are truly in such need of the funds, you would do better to ply the skills couriers are better known for in the interest of a personal loan.”

The briefest of pauses. “We accept.”

It was only two words, but Uleris’s brain stuttered to understand them. He gaped momentarily before schooling his face and ears to neutrality. Why had Aisava agreed to such a thing so readily? The temptation to sputter _you would truly debase yourself so?_ lay just behind his lips as he studied Aisava's face. His expression was neutral as well, the mask all lowborn folk with a single grain of sense used before their betters. but the defiance, the _challenge_ in Aisava’s eyes made Uleris think twice. The insolent marnis ought to be put in his place.

“You will meet us here at the same time tomorrow,” he said, his tone indicative of dismissal.

“Yes, Lord Chancellor,” Aisava replied, voice and face unreadable as he left the office. 

Uleris stared at the Thu-Athameise tariff reports scattered across the desk without really seeing them before sweeping them into a drawer with a growl and forsaking his desk for the Chavada apartments.

***

Uleris, uncharacteristically for him, was drunk at his desk. An afternoon draught of wine to calm his nerves had become two, then three, and by the time the last Witness reports had been deposited on his desk the neat clerical handwriting had begun to swim in eely ribbons over their parchment. He placed them into the office pigeonholes for the Imperial secretaries to sort at his command before seating himself at his desk. He had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes against the headache that even the soft gaslight of the room was intensifying when the soft knock finally sounded on the door.

“Come,” he said, and Aisava entered, face steady but unable to entirely conceal the droop of his ears. _Knowest thy place in sooth, then,_ Uleris thought, the thought bringing a small amount of clarity to his troubled brain. 

“On thy knees,” he said, the informal making his voice slightly bolder as he fumbled with the flies of his trousers. A cold thrill of fear that his flaccid cock would not rise, either from the wine or the lack of true desire, skittered through his undercarriage as Aisava’s mouth encircled the head of his shaft. 

As Aisava began to suck in earnest, however, the lewd press of his lips along Uleris’s length set these thoughts to flight like flushed partridges. _I did not misjudge thee, then, thou degenerate,_ Uleris thought as Aisava’s tongue drew slowly over the underside of his cock to cup it lengthwise before retreating backward to toy with the small notch where head met shaft. 

Aisava plied his lips slowly down the length in longer, and longer draws, his cheeks hollowing and filling, legs swaying ever so slightly as he braced his hands on his knees to steady himself, throat opening to take Uleris to the very hilt. Feeling the head of his cock brush the back of Aisava’s throat, Uleris felt his own less-than-steady legs tense with enjoyment—the slattern knew what he did, so much was plain. Sufficiently, in fact, that already Uleris’s stones had begun to draw up tight, shivers of enjoyment coursing along his thighs and up his spine. It was easy enough to imagine a young woman in Aisava’s place—the degenerate was pretty enough one might hardly have told him from a woman at a distance, even the nebulous distance of alcohol and distaste.

Aisava’s tongue slid along the underside of his cock once more to brush the tender skin where his stones began, and Uleris moaned far louder than he had intended. He extended one arm to brace himself against the desk before drawing back as a thought occurred to him. “Bend over the desk,” he ordered, voice level as he could make it.

For a moment Aisava looked for all the world like he was about to refuse but rose to his feet without protest, lips parted and flushed. His fingers made quick work of his own trousers and underclothes, revealing that he was not at all erect. Indignance and relief warred in Uleris’s breast as Aisava spread himself over the desk, presenting a sculpted arse that, if Uleris concentrated on the lithe line of his side, the pale spill of hair over his back, could have as easily have been the arse of a maid. With knowledge born of years of off-color jests and university gossip, Uleris spat in his palm, working it over his cock to add to the glistening leavings of Aisava’s mouth, before pressing the swollen head against the tiny dip of Aisava’s hole.

Aisava hissed softly with pain as Uleris’s cock breached him, his slender, womanish fingers tightening on the scroll-carved back ridge of the desk. With grim satisfaction, Uleris pressed his hips forward hard, bottoming his cock out as he grasped for a handful of white braids to provoke another gasp of breath. Aisava was so tight as to be near painful around Uleris’s steadily throbbing cock, his hips rising willingly to meet the thrusts. Each flutter of his insides, tighter than his wife had been even before Nurevis’s birth, left Uleris fighting another cry. Chest now flush with Aisava’s back, he drove forward with the urgency of a hound after a quarry. The small, pained noises Aisava produced did not arouse him, he told himself firmly—they were only satisfactory, right and proper for as cheap a whore as would spread his legs for such a pittance. As it was only right and proper for the Lord Chancellor to condescend to such tribute as was offered to a man of his standing, however illicitly.

Aisava buried his face in his arm as Uleris’s thrusts drew roughly against the tender walls of his hole. Uleris’s speed increased with the ragged build of his climax, shivers becoming fevered shudders, until he could thrust no more and drew abruptly back. Jet after jet of his seed laid themselves like whip weals over Aisava’s back as high as his hairline without a single touch of Uleris’s hand in lieu of the memory of that sweet hole around his cock. His fingers, he noticed distantly, had tightened hard enough in Aisava’s hair to come away with strands of milkweed-white tangled in his rings, and he roughly snatched them away to lie across the threadbare Pencharneise rug—his requisition for a new one had still not been approved.

Gingerly rising from the desk, Aisava redressed himself, too shameless or too hurried to clean Uleris’s seed from his back. His cock, contrary to his eager return of Uleris’s thrusts, looked as though it had not stirred at all during the proceedings. “We will take our payment now an it please you,” he said, ears carefully level and eyes downcast.

For a moment Uleris considered refusing, or striking him, or demanding another fuck the next night. These thoughts dispersed in a miasma of disgust—at himself, at the unnatural youth before him, at the whole situation. For all he knew the young degenerate would retaliate with rumors among the courier fleet that would inevitably make their slow but sure way to the broader court. For all he knew those rumors would come anyway, with little enough to show for them. Nonetheless, a nobleman’s word was his word. He scribbled a promissory note on a sheet of fine reed-pulp paper embossed with the chancellor's seal before signing it with his personal seal as well. “Present this to the treasury,” he said, shoving it across the desk.

Aisava took the note, bowed, and retreated, looking (and limping) as though if he had possessed a tail it would be between his legs. The flare of satisfaction this afforded was short-lived, and Uleris collapsed into his chair before proceeding to finish the bottle of wine, a bulwark against the headache which now filled his head like a thundercloud as the post-coital lassitude faded. The incipient walk back to his apartments seemed the journey of a thousand miles; even the prospects of a bath and enough harder liquor to silence his thoughts were hardly appealing. 

Uleris closed his eyes against the pounding of his temples, then opened them once more with a start to survey the desk and the floor before him for signs that a snooping charwoman or pageboy might find. Nothing presented itself to his blurry vision save for the few strands of hair that lay across the faded red of the rug like an accusation. He fed them one by one into the lamp before snuffing it, fleeing the room with the stench of burnt hair and the stupidity of self-pity clinging to him like a miasma.


End file.
